Remembering
by Lady Merlin
Summary: John ends up unpacking stuff from boxes when Sherlock's out gallivanting on the streets of London, in the wee hours of the morning. John can't sleep because Sherlock's not there.


Title: Memory

Fandom: Sherlock BBC

Pairing: John/Sherlock Established

Rating: None. Gen.

Warnings: None. Character Study-ish

Summary: John ends up unpacking stuff from boxes when Sherlock's out gallivanting on the streets of London, in the wee hours of the morning. John can't sleep because Sherlock's not there.

Sherlock is out. Nothing new there. Even though it is one thirty in the morning, and it's snowing like the end of the world outside. Still nothing new.

John is awake because psychosomatic limp aside, he has been hit by a bullet, and those kinds of injuries are notorious for hurting in the cold. It makes him feel old. Like the slightly creepy uncle he'd known as a child, who had claimed to be able to predict the weather from the ache in his arthritic hip. Also, Sherlock isn't there.

John had never believed it as a child, but he knew his shoulder hurt more than usual in the cold, and when it rained. A deep, penetrating ache from below muscle, radiating through bone. _Sherlock isn't there._

So he is awake, and not likely to get back to sleep. Winters in London are more than a little bit not good. And Sherlock more than made up for it, most of the time. He would pretend to have a stomach ache or a head-ache, and he'd get up, and make John ridiculous amounts of surprisingly good food.

Then they'd sit in the warm kitchen with never-ending pots of strong tea and Sherlock would tell him bizarre stories which made him laugh until he forgot the pain, and he would _drown_ in Sherlock's presence. Somehow Sherlock always knew when he was in pain, even when John was asleep. The food would last them for _days._ Sherlock would fall asleep on the couch the next day, in sheer exhaustion.

They never talk about it, even though John sometimes thinks his heart could burst with _something_.

But Sherlock was gone, sometimes. He'd slip out of bed and be out of the house, and it would take John hours of restless discomfort to realise that the discomfort was because Sherlock wasn't there. And it would wake him up more thoroughly than the pain in his shoulder, because whenever Sherlock wasn't there, John would feel physically _sick_ (with nerves, fear, stark _terror_).

He isn't sure how they'd gotten so co-dependant in the short year they'd known each other. But somehow, from being complete strangers in a lab, introduced by a mutual acquaintance, they are now flat-mates, friends, lovers, _everything_.

Sherlock is John's whole world.

He pushes himself out of the warm tangle of sheets, and folds the duvet absently, wondering what he can do now. He wishes Sherlock had woken him. He'd rather be out there in the freezing cold _with_ Sherlock, than here, warm but alone with_out_ Sherlock.

They've been living in 221B Bakers Street for a whole _year_ now, and they still have unpacked boxes in their rooms, stuffed into corners and under tables. There never seems like there is enough time for mundane things like unpacking old boxes. Like anyone would want to do something so spectacularly boring when there are criminals to be chased around London, and serial killers to be thwarted, and best friends to be saved. John isn't complaining.

He doesn't want any other life, if he ever had a choice. He would rather _die_ than live without Sherlock, for whatever reason. Refer to ridiculous co-dependency. He is sure Sherlock is the same way, but he's more opposed to Sherlock's dependence on him, than he is to his own dependence on Sherlock. He wouldn't survive without Sherlock. But Sherlock will have to.

John isn't worth dying over, god knows. John is small, and boring, and uninteresting in so many ways that Sherlock's mind-blowing _love_ for him is astounding. Sherlock _has_ to survive after John, if John died in the process of ensuring it. Sherlock is part of something bigger. More important on the chessboard than John's simple, non-essential pawn.

John knows Sherlock doesn't approve of his thoughts, but gets the distinct impression that Sherlock doesn't have a logical argument to change John's mind, so he just bites his tongue and _loves_ John with all his being. _This_, John can accept.

He shuts down his line of thought, and yanks out a box from under a table. It is dusty, which John had fully expected. He cuts the masking tape practically _encasing_ the corrugated cardboard with a random blade from the kitchen.

This one is Sherlock's. He hasn't particularly bothered distinguishing between his and Sherlock's, because god knows they shared everything anyway. He knows where Sherlock's stuff went better than even Sherlock knew, because the prat had a bad habit of deleting things from his memory, that he knew John would remember for him. John rolls his eyes, just to spite Sherlock, even though Sherlock might have been on the other side of London for all he knows.

The streets outside are quiet, which is shocking and new, but apparently it is too cold even for work-obsessed Londoners to venture outdoors. For a split second, John can swear he hears the clatter of hooves on the tarred roads, but _what_? He shakes his head as if to rid the sound from it, and gets back to the boxes. His mind is strange sometimes.

So many times, he'd visualize Sherlock with an ancient lacquered pipe between his gorgeous lips, an eyebrow raised in question. So many times he'd _hear_ Sherlock's voice, calling him 'My dear Watson,' into the curve of his ear, breath hot and wet on John's neck. But Sherlock never calls him Watson. He is always John. He didn't bother mentioning it to Sherlock because he was ridiculed enough for his imagination as it was.

The box contains layer after layer of books with some of the strangest titles he'd ever seen in his life. Ancient tomes about poison and insects and Asian traditional medicines and ancient civilizations in India and Rome and Egypt. A whole book about frogs, and another about ancient, royal etiquette, with pictures of _hundreds_ of forks. Another book about psychology, which looks very well thumbed for all of Sherlock's dismissal of the 'pseudo-science', and a really old copy of the Kama Sutra. John cannot control his smirk when he notices the furiously scrawled annotations on the margins of almost every page.

Sherlock had been so terrified of telling John that he was experienced beyond any reasonable expectation, because he'd started taking people to bed as a part of a massive experiment over the span of four years. John had seen only two paths in his mind, even before Sherlock had raised the issue. Either Sherlock would be a virgin, having shunned all physical contact for fear of germs or something, or Sherlock would have enough experience to write books, because god forbid he do anything half way.

John had kissed him silent through his nervous yammering, because he didn't _care_ whom Sherlock had taken to bed in the past, as long as he was the only one now. He was, Sherlock had assured him, with awe in his eyes. John wondered how many people had shunned Sherlock for him to be so grateful for something so small.

John sighs. He might as well as get some work done, while he was at it, so he opens the standard cardboard Ikea box lying in the corner. The shelves are a tasteful faux cherry wood, which clashes horribly with _everything_ in their flat which was anything _but_ tasteful. He sets them up with little trouble beside the floral curtains which Mrs. Hudson had insisted on, when their old set began to smell from mould, because Sherlock had left the windows open in the pouring rain to clear the flat of noxious green fumes. That's where they clash the most, John thinks, and grins. Sherlock will laugh.

He finds a damp cloth which doesn't look _too_ contaminated, and wipes every book clean before arranging them into the new shelves. He arranges them by height, because he'd been neat before the army and old habits died hard.

Two more boxes of books are unpacked, and surprisingly one of them was his. It was full of fantasy novels, and fictional sagas, and they look ridiculous next to Sherlock's scholarly tomes. Kind of like him. He looks ridiculous next to Sherlock, who seemed to consider John an extension of his very body.

There are some jumpers which are thrown straight into the wash, as if dust and memories were contagious. He hopes the memories would be thoroughly gone after he ironed them. He isn't interested in the past. He is interested in now. He doesn't want anything pulling his attention from now.

He files a couple of stray papers into huge ring folders he'd given Sherlock on his own birthday, as a very loud hint. Sherlock had blushed slightly, and had made the effort. Granted, John was the one who ended up doing most of the filing because Sherlock kept conveniently deleting how to work the hole-puncher, he figures it is the thought that counts.

He finds some old jazz vinyl which makes him beam in delight, because he'd _loved_ those songs as a kid, and clicks them with great care into the record player Sherlock didn't know what to make of. They still sound perfect, and John finds himself smiling ridiculously as he works.

Then in one of Sherlock's boxes, just as the sun was peeking into their living room from its only window, John finds a small wooden box, with delicate carvings on the lid. It is darker than the faux cherry wood of the bookshelves, with a genuine grain instead of a plastic sheet print. It smells faintly spicy, like mahogany, or something. He remembered having read somewhere that mahogany wood started off light, and grew darker with age. Then this piece must be old, considering how dark it was. There is a small, metal plated key hole on the back. But it isn't a lock. It is too small for it, easily half the size of John's little finger.

The vinyl track finishes, and the needle promptly goes off track with a scratch. John pulls it up slightly, so it stays suspended a centimeter above the disc. The box is shut by a simple clasp, and John flicks it with a gentle thumb. The lid lifts easily, and John feels his breath escape his lungs, with no apparent intention of returning.

Inside are delicate, tiny figurines of a woman and two boys. They are hand carved and clearly painted in detail, with great love. The woman is sitting in a miniature wooden chair, in a light blue dressing gown. The paint work is so fine, John can make out wisps of her hair framing her face, having escaped from a bun tied with a red ribbon. She is tall, and slender, with an impossibly long, swanlike neck, and legs delicately crossed.

One boy, the larger one is squashed into the chair with such lifelike features, that John half expects him to jump out any second. His head is resting on the woman's chest, obviously adoring. His tiny hand clasps the belt of the woman's dressing gown. Her son, then. Her _sons_.

The other boy, smaller with impossibly curly black hair is perched precariously on the arm of the sofa, eyes painted shut, with a violin in his delicate hands, and John swears he can _hear_ the boy pulling gorgeous notes from the air like magic. The woman's hand is placed lovingly, _reverently_, on the smaller boy's back, holding him up and pretending not to.

Christ. It is one of _the_ most beautiful things he has ever seen in his life. He hadn't known it was possible to create something so precise on so small a scale. A small, ornate key is slotted carefully under the figurines, and it is obviously meant for the hole in the back of the box. It is made of the same metal. John is a surgeon, and with all the care he can muster, he slides the key out of it's hiding spot.

The lid closes surprisingly easily on the figurines, and John is struck by the irrational fear that closing the lid would have damaged them. He knows it wouldn't have, but he checks anyway. Then he turns the box around, and the key slides easily into the lock. He turns once, twice, thrice, and something clicks. Like a music box.

He opens the lid for the third time, and a sweet, tinkling melody begins to play. It is one of those olden musical boxes, made with pins on a revolving cylinder, and a steel comb. John had made one with his sister when they were ten. It had sounded like crap, and the steel comb had snapped in two hours. He'd blamed Harry, and she'd blamed him. They hadn't spoken to each other for a whole three days before trying to build a rocket onto a toy car together. This one sounded gorgeous.

This music box is really old. It looks like an antique. Priceless, probably. And he'd have given his right arm to bet that the miniatures were Sherlock, Mycroft and their Mother.

The tune is quiet, and haunting, like something Sherlock would play late at night on his violin, when he was _not-_upset. He cannot describe it with words because what he knows about music wouldn't fill a teaspoon. All he knows is that it is heartbreakingly sad, and makes him want to find Sherlock and _hug_ him.

And the devil appears as Sherlock unlocks the front door. John doesn't bother pretending he hasn't been touching Sherlock's stuff. Sherlock insisted it was shared, but John knew better. Some things are private. John, despite loving Sherlock with everything he had, knew very little about Sherlock's life, and childhood. It was that way for a reason, John knows. He shouldn't have opened the box. But he couldn't bring himself to regret it beyond that. It has revealed to him a little bit more about Sherlock that he just hadn't known.

Sherlock sighs heavily. He isn't… angry, or upset exactly. Just tired. John turns then, studying Sherlock for injury. None present themselves, but that doesn't mean anything. Sherlock rolls his eyes and his nose twitches in a smile which isn't happy enough to grace his lips. He isn't hurt. But he is feeling something. John isn't sure what. Sherlock would have to tell him, if he wanted John to know. All John knows is that he wants Sherlock in his arms, there and then.

Sherlock slumps into the couch beside him, and wraps his impossibly long arms around John's torso. John carefully puts the musical box as far from him as possible, so he won't damage it, and turns to meet Sherlock's embrace. Sherlock is cold. His nose is icy as it burrows into John's neck, and his lips are cold when they kiss John's collar. His fingers are freezing spots through John's jumper. John manages to get Sherlock's ridiculously useless jacket off, and pull Sherlock just a little bit closer, get him a little bit warmer, a little more alive and a little less blue.

There is no need for words, now. Sherlock will ask when he needs to. For now, John just wants to love Sherlock, as Sherlock loves him.

The sun is now shining straight through the window, watery, pale, and still blinding. It's snowing outside. It's easy enough to get Sherlock's shoes off, and tuck his whole body into John's own, because Sherlock curls up like a cat, long limbs folding into a much smaller space when warranted.

"My mother's sister made that for us," Sherlock whispered, barely audible. "Two weeks before Mummy died. Cancer." His face was still in John's neck, moving lips tickling sensitive skin.

John exhales, and says nothing, only pressing dry kisses into Sherlock's iconic, curly hair. He won't say he's sorry, because Sherlock already knows that. "It's beautiful," John replies, because it really was a worthy reply to a non-question. Sherlock and him, they worked like that.

Silence, as the sun rose, painting the sky a watery pink.

"Those bookshelves look hideous," Sherlock suddenly says. The moment is over, for now. John has seen something under Sherlock-Holmes-The-Consulting-Detective, which he has never seen before. Something young, and painfully vulnerable, and _human._ John grins. It changes nothing, because Sherlock doesn't care about John's past, the least John can do is not care about Sherlock's.

"I know," he replies. And he does.


End file.
